


To Break a Curse

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Unconventional Courtship Generator, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 22:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: With luck, they might survive their first date…Dear Reader, this letter is to inform you of Cupid’s curse, which will fall upon you if you don’t pass this email on to twelve friends within twelve hours.Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe in the curse and now he hasn’t had a second date in three years… because all his first dates end in disaster.Gregory Lestrade isn’t sure if the curse is real or not, but if dating Mycroft means occasionally getting assaulted with shrimp linguini or nearly electrocuted, it’s worth the risk. Armed with lucky charms and optimism, Greg will have to battle Russian mail-order brides, fire alarms and flying knives if he’s going to win the boy.(Adapted from “Cursed By Cupid” by Wendy Sparrow)





	To Break a Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Unconventional Courtship challenge based on the summary of 'Cursed by Cupid' by Wendy Sparrow. Thanks to Tehomet for betaing, and thanks to those wonderful readers who gave me feedback as I wrote this in stops and starts.

The most interesting thing about the email is that it appears in Mycroft's inbox at all. The layers of electronic security and various administrative staff should have ensured it was deleted or quarantined long before Mycroft saw it.

On the surface, it's a simple chain letter promising a reward for sharing this banality with others and threatening dire consequences if ignored. Mycroft reads it carefully to be sure there isn't a hidden message encoded in it, but their standard cyphers reveal nothing.

It's merely a chain letter from an anonymously random email. There is something about the 5s and 8s in the email address that makes Mycroft suspect it's from Sherlock -- not something he can prove without investing significant time, but probable enough that he's comfortable with the assumption. Sherlock could be testing Mycroft's security, trying to find weaknesses he can exploit later. Or simply doing it to annoy Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs. It's such a shame to see a bright mind wasted on pointless puzzles.

Even if Mycroft was the type of person to know a dozen people on a purely social basis, he still wouldn't forward a letter espousing “romantic miracles” and “the love of your life”. Sneering at the threatened “Cupid's curse” upon all future attempts at romance, Mycroft deletes the email and thinks no more about it.

***

Mycroft is not a superstitious man. Superstition is how the unobservant make sense of the world, pretending omens and rituals give them some control over perfectly logical results. The decline in his romantic life has nothing to do with an ignored email.

It's a logical result of circumstances. As the scope of his role has increased, so has the confidentiality of information. He no longer works directly with a particular team; it's better to sift through multiple written reports to collate an accurate grasp of the situation. Overlapping information is the best way to ensure nothing is missed; multiple sources reduce unconscious bias.

This means that he spends most of his days working alone in one of his offices or attended by minimal, well-known staff. The only meetings he attends in person are small committees of his peers. In short, he has fewer daily opportunities to meet strangers, so it's unsurprising that he dates less.

And then there is Mycroft's natural inclination. He is no longer twenty and intrigued by taking a risk, nor willing to sit through four or five tedious dates to be certain the relationship will fail. He is no longer in his thirties, feeling his youth inexorably slipping away with his thinning hair and receding hairline; no longer desperate to grab at any opportunity, worried it will pass him by.

The main comfort of his late forties is that he is comfortable with his own company. He enjoys his house, his club and his work, and living out his days alone no longer fills him with dread. His leisure time is too precious to squander on dates that will not go anywhere. He is more selective, and more than happy to cease a new acquaintance over dessert when it's obviously doomed.

He hasn't had a second date in years because he knows who he is and has grown more adept at reading the flaws of others. Sherlock may tease him about being cursed, but Mycroft knows that's preposterous.

***

“Do sit down, Quentin,” Mycroft chides sharply, frowning at the scene before him. He's starting to wish he'd picked a different restaurant. He likes _Gauthier_ , but if this nonsense continues much further, he might not be able to come back here.

“It's broken.” The words are muffled, both from the damage to Quentin's nose and the bloody napkin he's holding to it. Mycroft can still make out every outraged word. “He broke my nose. That's assault. I want him charged.”

Mycroft looks over at the hapless waiter now surrounded by other staff. His apology is blazing in the creases on his forehead, the twist of his long fingers, his weight shifted off his left foot. “He tripped,” Mycroft says. It's as obvious as the waiter's love for tabby cats, his aspirations to be a sculptor and his Albanian grandparents.

“He hit me,” Quentin insists, ignoring the fact that Mycroft is right. Mycroft already had his doubts about this date: Quentin's wine choices had been pretentious and his attempt to debate the Greek economy had been woefully simplistic. Knowing the man lashes out when his pride is hurt only supports those doubts. “Somebody needs to call the police. He needs to be arrested.”

Mycroft could step back and let it happen, but the waiter will be fired and the court's time will be wasted. Instead, he makes a call. 

It connects almost immediately. “Lestrade here.”

“Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes. I need to ask a favour.” Mycroft turns away from the table, rolling his eyes at the expression of vindication on Quentin's face. “There is a matter of an assault charge that I would prefer was handled quietly.”

“Quietly?” Lestrade echoes. “You want me to come down there?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Lestrade doesn't argue or bicker. He only asks for the address and promises to be there as soon as London traffic allows.

The speed of Lestrade's arrival means he must have used the siren to force his way through. It's a slight abuse of power that Mycroft appreciates. Lestrade walks into the restaurant like he's stepping onto a crime scene: not fussy, not showy, but certain he should be here. His shirt is open at the collar, his jacket unbuttoned beneath his trench coat, but he nods his way through the onlookers and people step aside.

He's come on his day off, Mycroft realises, noting the day's worth of grey stubble. It should make him look scruffy but Lestrade looks ruggedly handsome instead. For an absurd moment, Mycroft wonders how rough it would feel against his fingertips.

He blinks the thought away as Lestrade steps closer. “Thank you for coming.”

“Where is he?” Lestrade asks, looking around the room. His gaze lingers on Quentin and the napkin pressed over his face before scanning the rest of the crowd.

Mycroft nods at the poor waiter. “He tripped, collided with his nose,” he says, looking over at Quentin.

“Not Sherlock?”

“Not this time,” Mycroft says. “This was more of a personal favour.”

Lestrade's brows shoot up at ‘personal’ and this time when he looks at Quentin, he pays more attention to the dinners between them, the casual glasses of wine and the small table for two. It's not obvious. It could be a working dinner but Lestrade mutters, “At least one of you dates,” under his breath, and then adds, “He wants to press charges and you don't want him to?”

“If you could discourage him.”

***

“So,” Sherlock says, fishing the broken heart from the board game between them. Sherlock prefers playing Operation because it gives him an excuse to show off his dexterity; Mycroft agrees because Sherlock brings out his competitive streak. At some point, Mycroft will stop letting his brother goad him into childish games he'll most likely lose. “I heard your last date required police intervention.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. There is no official record of that event, but Sherlock's information comes from a variety of questionable sources. “It was an expedient solution.”

“It was the curse,” Sherlock replies gleefully.

“It was an unfortunate choice of dinner companion.” Mycroft scowls at the pieces left on the board. He steadies his tweezers above the funny bone. “Nothing more.”

***

Mycroft doesn't give much thought to the snippets of Latvian coming from the kitchen. The service industry across London is fueled by people working long hours for minimum pay, and those people are frequently immigrants with limited English. Hearing a foreign language from the back of a restaurant is expected.

The date is better than expected. Paul is charming with a nice smile, and he talks about his position at the Wallace Collection with passion and admiration. They've discussed favourite painters and the sheer emotion in the latest exhibition, and it's all going well until Mycroft hears himself laughing a little too loudly at Paul's joke.

“If you'll excuse me,” he says, standing up and making sure he feels the weight of his phone in his pocket. “I'll be right back.”

It takes too much concentration to keep his steps steady as he takes the narrow hallway to the gents. He can feel his pulse hammering at his neck, the hot flush on his cheeks. He looks at the dimly lit wallpaper around him, the way the design shifts and swims in front of him, blurring and overlapping in endless repetitive patterns. He notes the way it makes him feel: amused and entertained. He wants to call Paul over, show him this wonderful wall.

An entactogen, then. MDMA, perhaps. Something slipped into his drink to allow for quick metabolism into the bloodstream. He thinks of Paul, Paul's easy smile, Paul reaching across the table to run fingertips along Mycroft's palm. No wonder the date was going so well; they're both under the influence of something.

It must have been a member of staff. Latvian. There was a corrupt general in Belarus with ties to Latvia, a general whose illegal arms deal fell through due to Mycroft. Despite Mycroft's excellent memory, the details are fuzzy. Right now, it's hard to think straight, let alone strategize.

Mycroft pulls out his phone. Texts his assistant with the details, orders surveillance on the current employees. It's a risk for him to be anywhere near his office in this state, and Sherlock is in Scotland investigating missing emeralds.

“Need me to rescue you from another bad date?” Lestrade asks and Mycroft doesn't remember dialling. But the phone is in his hand, and Lestrade's on the other end, and when he drags his free hand down the wallpaper, the flocking feels incredible under his fingertips.

“With some urgency,” Mycroft says and manages to drag the restaurant's address from his memory. He relays it to Lestrade who hums as he writes it down. It's a pleasant sound. “You must have a lovely singing voice.”

“Are you okay?” The sharp concern in Lestrade's tone sobers him a little. “Is that some kind of distress code?”

“No, but it would be handy right now.” Mycroft can't remember where the kitchen is relative to this hallway. Doesn't know if he can be overheard. Doesn't know if he's said too much already. “I think I've had too much to drink.”

Lestrade mutters something about lightweights but Mycroft can hear his keys jingling. “Fine, I'm on my way. Stay there.”

When Mycroft gets back to the table, Paul is glassy-eyed. There's a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Now that Mycroft's looking for it, he hears the faster speech pattern and the touch of mania in Paul's voice.

“It's an amazing piece,” Paul says fervently, after enthusiastically describing a light installation south of the river. “We should go see it.”

“I'd like that.” He would. Mycroft wants to see Paul again, but it's unlikely. When Paul wakes up tomorrow, he'll subconsciouly blame Mycroft for this. There won't be a second date.

“We should go right now.”

“I can't,” Mycroft says but he's saved from explaining the situation by Lestrade walking through the doors. He's clean shaven this time, in a wrinkled shirt that he's worn all day and his phone in his hand. His amused smirk turns into an outright grin when he spots Mycroft.

Mycroft wonders at the grin and then realises that he has listed somewhat to his right. He takes his weight off his elbow and sits upright.

Paul's nice smile shines even brighter when he sees Lestrade. Mycroft understands it, of course, but it's still galling. Lestrade is not there to be leered at.

“Paul, this is DI Lestrade.” He waves a hand between them. Gets distracted for a moment by the glide of his hand in the air. “Lestrade, could you explain to Paul the common effects of MDMA?”

“What?”

“MDMA. Ecstasy. Common effects.” Mycroft can't. He doesn't trust himself to explain the drugging without explaining the reason for it -- and that is far beyond what a civilian like Paul should know.

Lestrade is now looking at Mycroft. He must see Mycroft's flushed cheeks, the loosened tie because he'd been desperately hot. “You were roofied?” he asks, suddenly serious and professional and devastatingly handsome.

Mycroft nods and ignores Paul, who's staring at Lestrade's mouth but not paying any attention to the words spoken. “The drinks.”

Lestrade frowns and starts rifling through his coat pockets. He pulls out an evidence bag, wonder of wonders, then takes the empty glasses from the table and seals them inside. “Okay, gentlemen, we're going to A&E.”

***

The car ride turns Paul's pale complexion to the colour of chalk. He looks distinctly nauseated, so Mycroft stays in the back of the Vauxhall Astra while Lestrade takes Paul in.

He wants to sleep this off but he doesn't feel the least bit tired. Instead, he watches the streetlights reflect on shop windows or runs his fingers over the car's upholstery. Leather seats would be easier to clean but Lestrade has the standard fabric option. No special requests. No special treatment. No expectation of higher recognition or higher rewards for doing his job and more.

Mycroft has both hands flat against the seat, dragging his palms over the fabric just to feel it against his skin, when the car door opens. “Okay, got that sorted. They're keeping him for observation overnight, and his sister will collect him in the morning.”

Mycroft scowls at the thought of Sherlock having to do the same. It seems wrong. He's supposed to be the sober one getting calls from a hospital; it's never been the other way around.

Then he remembers Sherlock is in Scotland. Saved from that possibility.

When he looks up, Lestrade is staring at him. “Yes?”

“Your turn. Come on.”

“No.”

“No?”

“A hospital has too many staff. Too many entrances. If this was a planned attack, I'd be too vulnerable there. Take me home.” Mycroft drags a hand against his forehead, trying to think through the haze in his mind. “No, my laptop's there. Too much information. Take me to a hotel instead. Somewhere they charge extra for WiFi in your room.”

Mycroft fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it out to Lestrade who blinks and then takes it. “What's this for?”

“Hold on to that for me. I shouldn't be left with… with…” He can't remember the words. They're there, he can hear them in a variety of languages, but in English that word is blank. Just a shape in his mind of keys and locks and files.

“With means of contacting someone?” Lestrade asks, still leaning into the back seat through the open door. From this angle, he looks tired. Shadows catch on the soft bags under his eyes. He should sleep more, Mycroft thinks. He should have someone to kiss him on the cheek and suggest an early night. “Mycroft?”

“Confidential information. No, that's not the right word. Sounds similar. Or similar meaning.” Mycroft shakes his head. His vision spins a little so he holds himself very still as he adds, “Classified. That's the word.”

“Classified?”

“The amount of information on that phone, the secrets I am privy to… I should not have access to them while I’m incapable of logical thought.”

***

Mycroft's not entirely sure how he ended up on a sofa in Lestrade's flat. Oh, he can guess the turns Lestrade took and how long he had to wait in traffic, but he's not sure why. Yet he's sitting on Lestrade's sofa -- a deep grey-blue fabric, easy to accessorise, new but not terribly high quality -- being handed a pillow and a duvet.

“I know you probably can't,” Lestrade says firmly, “but try to get some sleep. I'll come check on you in a bit.”

***

Mycroft wakes up the next morning and quickly wishes he was still unconscious. His head is pounding. His tongue feels as if he's been licking carpet.

He stretches out on the sofa and groans like a prisoner on the rack. He aches everywhere: his arms, his legs, his ribs, even his elbows.

He feels clammy, skin tacky with sweat, and shirt damply stuck to his back. All in all, it's a disgusting feeling. He can't fathom why anyone would wake up like this by choice.

He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes -- even his eyelids ache -- and tries to recall last night. It's blurry snatches of Lestrade muttering soothing nonsense, a cold flannel held against his forehead, fingers petting through his hair the way Mummy used to when he caught a cold.

He remembers talking to Lestrade; the taste of sweet, milky tea. He can remember leaning against Lestrade, drooping until his head was on Lestrade's shoulder. Warm cotton against his cheek and the smell of laundry detergent and deodorant and human being, the same smells on Lestrade's pillow. He has no memory of what he said to Lestrade. Hopefully, it was nonsense ramblings and nothing especially classified.

Although that is why he called Lestrade. The man has proven he knows how to keep a secret when necessary, and he understands that there is a lot of grey in the world. Alongside Miss Hooper, Lestrade stands as one of the few civilians Mycroft would trust with the nation's security.

Mycroft pulls his hands down reluctantly. From the angle of sunshine coming through the tiny kitchen window, it's late afternoon. The kettle's been moved and there's the edge of a mug in the sink. Toast crumbs on the counter. Lestrade ate a quick breakfast quietly, no sign of lunch. He left some hours ago.

As expected, there's a note on the coffee table. “Had to go to work,” says Lestrade's chunky block capitals. “Call me when you wake up. Greg.”

There are years of filling out arrest paperwork in that handwriting, capitals used as an easier way of ensuring legibility, even spacing and a slight slant to his W’s. Mycroft places it down on the table before he can do anything as ridiculous as trace over the letters with a finger.

He picks his phone up from the table and dials.

“Hey,” Lestrade says, more gently than Mycroft probably deserves. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death would be a mercy,” Mycroft replies candidly, “but it will pass.”

“Your pulse was back to normal and you weren't running a fever, so I figured you were past the worst of it when I left.” The idea of Lestrade checking before he went to work… It makes Mycroft feel strangely bashful. “Have you been sleeping all this time?”

“Yes. I just woke up,” Mycroft says and then wonders why he bothered elaborating. Lestrade doesn't need him to state the obvious.

“If you want to stick around a couple of hours, I'll get takeout on my way back.”

“No,” Mycroft says quickly. “I've abused your hospitality long enough. I am in your debt.”

“As long as you hold up your end of the deal.” It sounds like a joke that Mycroft doesn't understand.

“Deal?”

“You promised me a knighthood.” Lestrade is clearly amused now. “You said people owed you favours and you could do better than an OBE.”

Now Mycroft remembers snippets of last night's conversation. Remembers complimenting Lestrade and insisting on a way to thank him. Apparently, in the most ridiculous and pompous way possible. 

Objectively, he knows it's best that no real information was shared. But the idea that Lestrade thinks he's a fool, that Lestrade is laughing at him, sits uncomfortably in Mycroft's stomach.

It's not beyond his abilities. He could orchestrate a knighthood if he wanted to. “It would take some months to arrange.”

“Yeah? So I could be Sir Greg? Make the ACPO ranks pay attention to me?”

“I think the Queen's representative would use your full name.”

“I don't think Sir Gregory has the same ring to it. Makes me sound a lot older and a lot posher than I am,” Lestrade says with a chuckle. “So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

“As long as you know your kindness was appreciated,” Mycroft says earnestly. A little too seriously given the awkward silence that settles between them. 

Eventually, Lestrade clears his throat and says, “Yeah, it's fine. Just be careful in future, right?”

“Or stop interacting with the human race," Mycroft suggests glibly. "Sometimes, that feels like the easier solution.”

***

For the next month or two, Mycroft makes it a personal priority to disassemble the support base of a particular general. He spends more time studying maps of Belarus than talking to people so it's unsurprising that his next date is almost three months after waking up on Lestrade's sofa.

If Mycroft's being perfectly honest, accepting tonight's invitation had less to do with the man, Julian Peterson, and more to do with his last conversation with Sherlock. (Sherlock had looked him up and down, grinning. “Finally decided to give in and accept the curse?” Really, Mycroft had no other choice than to prove him wrong at the next available opportunity.)

Julian is reasonably attractive: blonde hair turning white, a healthy tan, good features in a long face. He has nice hands, strong and a little rough from horse-riding. The type of man who has always been physically fit and has put effort into remaining so as he ages. He has the biceps and forearms of a man who spends time at the gym daily.

He's objectively attractive, but more importantly, Mycroft is attracted to him. He would very much like to invite him home, to kiss him against the stair railing and let his fingers explore that carefully maintained physique.

He might suggest it if Julian would only stop talking. The man barely pauses for breath, rolling from one self-absorbed story to the next. Tales of being a merchant banker, of buying his new Ferrari, of that time at Capri where the hotel had double-booked the executive suite and tried to bribe him with a complimentary room until the suite was available. It's bragging in the least interesting way possible.

Mycroft smiled through the first few stories but now he's letting his mind wander, not that Julian’s taken any notice of it. Julian is attractive as long as Mycroft doesn't pay any attention to the things he's saying. 

He couldn't bear sitting through another evening of this, but he's sure he can keep nodding and get through the meal. Even if it's just a one night stand, it would be nice to be touched and feel desirable again. 

Maybe saying “just” a one night stand in disingenuous. Maybe it's expecting too much to find an attractive man who can both hold a decent conversation and enjoy Mycroft's company. Perhaps he should learn to be satisfied with two out of three.

When Mycroft thinks back on the last few years, most dates haven't ended well enough to even include a kiss. Of the ones that have, half of those were awkward goodnight pecks, the kind that clearly signalled that no one wanted to repeat the experience. It feels like a very long time since he's felt any immediate pull of desire.

Mycroft's so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn't notice the waiter approaching with their meals. He startles as the plate appears in front of him and instinctively flings a protective hand in front of him. It catches the heavy white porcelain and sends the plate flying across the table, landing food down in Julian's lap.

All three of them -- Mycroft, Julian and the waiter -- freeze in shock. Mycroft stifles the urge to laugh at the ridiculous situation. Julian slowly looks down at his lap and then snorts like an angry water buffalo.

“Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?” he splutters, face going red.

“Judging by the cut, it's one of Kilgour’s,” Mycroft says over the spluttering. From the way Julian's glaring, tonight is a lost cause. No point holding his tongue any longer. “I'd place it around £4,300.”

While Julian takes a ridiculous fuss about dry cleaning costs and rushing off to the gents to salvage his suit, Mycroft asks for another serving to take home. If tonight is doomed, he should at least be able to enjoy a nice prawn linguini.

***

Julian doesn't return to the table so Mycroft pays the bill and takes a surprisingly generous container home with him. He pauses outside the restaurant to fix his scarf and hears a familiar voice call out.

“Hey! Mycroft!”

When he looks behind him, there is Gregory Lestrade, trenchcoat billowing open as he strides closer. Of course, it is. A disappointing night wouldn't be complete without Lestrade witnessing it. 

Mycroft nods his head in greeting. “Sir Gregory,” he says and gets rewarded with a quick smile.

“I haven't seen you in ages,” Lestrade says. It's one of those imprecise terms that makes Mycroft automatically translate into twelve weeks and four days. “Everything good?”

“Busy, but nothing to worry about.” He almost asks what Lestrade's doing here, but there's a reflection of red and blue lights from an alley in the distance. Lestrade must be working.

Lestrade's eyes dip down to the bag in Mycroft's hand. “At least I'm not catching you in the middle of one of those disastrous dates. It's a nice change.”

“Not in the middle, no.”

“Really?” Lestrade asks, not even trying to hide the grin on his face.

Mycroft glances over his shoulder and spots Julian stomping his way through the restaurant. Length and pace of strides, the width of the restaurant, the indirect route that has to be taken… 

“I believe that's him now,” Mycroft says at the precise moment that Julian pushes open the doors, sends a scathing look at Mycroft and then stalks the opposite direction. There's a large wet mark on the front of his trousers.

The timing is perfect. It's only made better by Lestrade's startled but honest laughter. “Christ. It went that well, huh?”

“I did have high hopes for tonight.”

Something flashes quickly across Lestrade's expression, a moment of sharp curiosity, there and gone. “It was going well?”

“Not really. I spent the whole night listening to his tedious anecdotes.” Mycroft can't simply say: I disliked him but I wanted to use him for sex. There's no way to say ‘ _I put up with it to try to get a leg over_ ’ that doesn't sound sleazy or pathetic. “But at least I have complex carbohydrates to comfort me.”

“We've got a two-hour wait for SOCO, so I'm leaving the team to wait for them. Perks of being the boss,” Lestrade adds cheekily. “Do you want a ride somewhere?”

Mycroft wants to go home. He wants to eat food he probably shouldn't, sit in his warm comfortable house and remind himself that there are far worse things than being single. Like having to listen to one more boring, pretentious story.

“On the proviso that you help me finish this,” he says, rattling the plastic bag in his hand. “Honestly, it's all cream and pasta. I shouldn't be left alone with it.”

“Deal.”

***

He leads Lestrade straight into the dining room and then detours back to the kitchen to heat and plate the food. When he walks in, Lestrade's sitting at the table, one place left of Mycroft's usual seat at the head. It's a large table but sitting across the corner of it, they're close enough to brush elbows.

It's nice. It means Lestrade doesn't have to speak loudly when he says, “Were you expecting company? Or is your place always this clean?”

It's no cleaner than it usually is. “I believe clean is an absolute. It either is or isn't clean.”

“No, it's a sliding scale,” Lestrade says, placing his form down to gesture to each end of the table. “Right from 'messy but mostly clean' to ‘Gregory Emile Lestrade, clean your room, we have visitors coming’. There's a wide range of acceptably clean between the two.”

It's an easy conversation. Lestrade talks about his Mum and trudging dirty football boots into the house, and there's clear affection in his tone. Affection for his parents, for a childhood that he remembers fondly. It's rather charming and for a moment, Mycroft wishes his date had been half as interesting to listen to.

He squashes that thought as soon as it occurs. Firstly, Lestrade has dated women since his divorce: most of them up to ten years younger than him and all of them decidedly pretty. If Lestrade had any interest in dating men, it would be foolish to assume he'd have any interest in dating Mycroft. Mycroft is clever, sharp and middling attractive where Lestrade is unfairly gorgeous and a genuinely decent man. He's a good man, a kind man; a man who works hard and expects no reward beyond the satisfaction in a job well done. 

Mycroft works hard because there's no one else who can do what he does, and there's little value in being wealthy in an unstable country; it's in his own best interest to keep everything running well. He's never fooled himself into believing he is either good or kind.

“Look, can I say something?” Lestrade asks after he's scraped the last strand of linguini from his plate. “It's not a criticism, just… You remind me of a mate of mine, Dave. Known him since school, forever really, and he's always had a type.”

“Go on.”

“Girls at bars, girlfriends, it's always been blondes. But he's happily married now. His wife's a brunette.”

Mycroft fails to see the point. “Was she blonde when he met her?”

“No. That's it. Once he stopped looking for a girl who looked a certain way, he found the one,” Lestrade says, displaying his own romantic streak in the choice of words. The idea that someone post-divorce and post-heartbreak could still believe in one true love -- in finding one perfect soulmate -- seems remarkable to Mycroft. He's had no such setbacks and he's cynical of the entire concept.

“I'm not sure I'm looking for the one. I think it would be nice to occasionally--” Mycroft stops himself before he can end that sentence in a truly pathetic way. It would be nice to have company, another warm body reading on the sofa. It would be nice to be held, to crawl into bed after a long day and fall asleep with someone's arm around you. It would be nice to get off with someone else's hand on his cock.

They're all nice things to have in life but they're hardly necessary.

“He had this idea in his head of what his future looked like, right? And restricting himself to girls who only fit that criteria meant he wasn't really giving himself a chance to fall in love. You can't fall for a checklist of attributes, it has to be the right person.” Lestrade reaches for his glass of water and takes a few deep swallows. “I'm just saying, you have a type.”

Not really, Mycroft thinks. They all had different professions, grew up in different areas of England. There was limited overlap in their choice of hobbies and interests. “A type?”

“It's always bespoke suits and money and posh,” Lestrade says plainly. “Which aren't bad things and I get that it gives you something in common, but maybe that's not who you're supposed to be with.”

“Those are the circles I mix in. Those are the men I meet.” Those and people who work for him, but dating the staff is bound to end badly.

“Then try something new. Or someone new,” Lestrade says, leaning closer. “Try--”

The phone in Lestrade's pocket rings loudly and they both jerk back. Lestrade pulls it out, answering quickly. 

“Lestrade here. Yeah? They got there early? Mark that one in the books. Yeah. No, I'm on my way. Ten minutes? Twenty?”

Mycroft stands up, glancing around the room to be sure Lestrade hasn't left anything. No, just his trenchcoat in the hall.

Lestrade puts the phone away with an apologetic expression. “I've got to go. Right now.”

“Thank you for the company,” Mycroft says, walking him out and fetching his trenchcoat on the way. “And I will give some consideration to your advice.”

“Good. Just--” Lestrade frowns as he takes his coat, apparently unsure of what to say. “Keep in touch, yeah?”

Knowing Mycroft's luck, he'll run into Lestrade after his next failed date. “Do take care.”

***

While he can see the merit of Lestrade's argument, it's easier to agree with it than act on it. Stepping beyond one's comfort zone may be commendable, but contrary to popular movies, standing around in coffee shops, bookstores and supermarkets doesn't help Mycroft meet anyone.

People don't start conversations with strangers. Most of the people in those places aren't single, and those that are have errands to run and are too busy to pay attention to anything beyond their phone.

After trying each venue once, Mycroft gives it up as a bad idea. He feels humiliatingly self-conscious and somehow invisible at the same time.

He calls Lestrade, hoping for a better suggestion of how people meet when it's not at galleries or play intermissions. He gets Lestrade's voicemail -- heralded by a very professional “This is DI Gregory Lestrade. Please leave a message at the tone” -- and doesn't react fast enough to end the call.

“This is Mycroft Holmes,” he says, cursing himself for not hanging up. He barely had a reason to call. He certainly doesn't have a good reason for leaving a message. “I was trying to get a message to Sherlock. Don't worry, I'll call John Watson.”

The good thing about having his metaphorical fingers in every pie is that there is always a minor issue somewhere that would benefit from Sherlock's investigative skills. It's an easy thing to call John Watson next, and offer paid work to Sherlock. (Surprisingly, Sherlock is bored enough to take it so that's one less thing Mycroft needs to address himself.)

He gets dragged into a conference call with China that afternoon so he misses Lestrade's return call. Lestrade's message is relaxed.

“Hey, it's Greg,” he says, “calling you back. Sherlock said he's busy doing something for you, so you must have got in touch with him. Call me back.”

Mycroft considers calling back but it's the middle of the night. He waits until the next day but it goes to voicemail again.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he says, and, “I was just returning your call,” and, “There's no pressing need for you to call me back.” Awkward is the kindest way to describe the stilted recording.

Then there's a quick trip to Washington and Lestrade calls while he's in the air. “Greg here. I don't know how we keep missing each other. I'll try again later.”

And then, “Just me again. Call me back, okay?”

The next few days Mycroft is busier than he prefers, sorting out a few messes here and there. Every time he gets a spare minute, it's an unreasonable time in London. 

He has to wait until an hour before his return flight. It should be mid-afternoon in London, on a Saturday. Lestrade should be able to answer his phone.

It goes to voicemail again. Mycroft's disappointed. He can hear it when he leaves the last message: “This is Mycroft. No need to call me back. We can declare you the winner in this game of phone tag.”

It's silly. Orchestrating a convenient time to call does not oblige someone else to answer. It's a Saturday and he's not on call; of course, Lestrade would have plans for the day.

When Mycroft gets off the plane, there's a missed call from Lestrade. He forces himself to ignore it until he has reclaimed his bags, survived airport traffic, and made it home in one piece.

The background noise in the message is loud: chatting people, mostly deep voices, the drone of a TV and the clink of glasses; the unmistakable sounds of a pub.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg says loudly, trying to be heard over the noise. He's had enough to drink that his accent's coming through, flattening his vowels. “I didn't hear my phone ring. Call me, yeah?”

Mycroft plays the message twice more and then deletes it. He doesn't call back. They've both wasted more time on this than the conversation deserves.

***

Since meeting someone in general public areas seems unlikely, it's only logical that Mycroft would fare better in a venue where people come to meet others. A venue where being gay was presumed. In short, a gay bar.

The idea of going out to Soho seems trendy and uncomfortably close to home, so Mycroft chooses an establishment out in Stoke Newington. According to Google, the most popular hours are Fridays and Saturdays between 11pm and 2am, so Mycroft plans accordingly.

In retrospect, it's not his best plan ever. There are two floors of dancing and bars, in spaces that would look dingy and worn if the lights were bright enough to see them. Judging by what Mycroft sees, the crowd is a mixture of gay and straight, groups loosely dancing in circles or couples gyrating together, but the majority of them of them are under twenty. 

Mycroft feels unforgivably old. Even if he'd been the right age, he's never enjoyed loud music thumping through his breastbone or been especially graceful on the dance floor. He can waltz and he can foxtrot but he's never had Sherlock's flair for it; he's certainly never pushed himself against a total stranger, using them as a pole in a stripper routine.

There's no point coming here and leaving immediately, so he forces himself to stay. He sits at the bar, back to the wall, dance floor and doorway in his line of sight. He keeps a close eye on his drinks being poured, but after one glass of hideously cheap whisky, he orders water.

He watches the young people drink and laugh, having fun, and he can't remember ever being so carefree. It's not in his nature. He watches them wistfully, wondering what it would be like to be... ordinary. To have a simple job, to only worry about your next pay cheque, to look forward to going out every weekend. It sounds terribly dull to Mycroft, to walk through life and only see the surface, but so many people seem content with it.

There are several free seats to either side of him, and yet someone takes the seat right beside him. Dark hair and olive skin -- Arabic mother and Eastern European father -- long, straight nose and very dark eyes. He's older than the crowd in here but not significantly. Around twenty-nine. 

His smile shows crooked incisors. “Having fun?”

“Not especially,” Mycroft replies. The young man looks confused; the music is too loud and he apparently doesn't read lips. Mycroft leans closer and repeats himself loudly. “No, not really.”

“First time here?”

“Probably my last,” Mycroft replies.

The young man grins and says, “Mike.”

“What?” Mycroft asks, instantly suspicious. He looks to the man's hands, but there are no telltale callouses, no signs of violence or weapon skills. He spends his days using a laptop keyboard.

“I'm Mike,” he says, tapping a hand to his chest to emphasize the point. “You?”

“Mycroft.”

From the confused frown, Mike didn't quite catch the name. “Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere we can talk?”

It's absurd. Mycroft was in university when this boy was born. But he's also been sitting here for two hours, and he hates it, and he wants to leave. “Where?”

“I know a place. Does great pancakes.”

It's the pancakes that convince Mycroft.

***

Over a fifteen minute stroll through quiet, fluorescent-lit streets, Mike doesn't say anything abysmally stupid. It's standard getting to know you conversation: employment, education, location. Or what did you study at school, where do you work, where do you live now and where did you grow up. All details that Mycroft could deduce, but the conversation is no more tedious than it needs to be.

Mike asks about Mycroft's job (civil servant for the Department of Transport) and confirms Mycroft's suspicions about his own employment (aspiring writer, he says, but he really means unemployed).

“It's such a modern concept,” Mycroft says because modern is sometimes the best word for immature and indulgent. “This idea of removing oneself from life in order to write. There are great books that were written while their authors held steady jobs.”

“Maybe those great books would have been written no matter what,” Mike says, leading them inside to a cafe open unfathomably late. It's an unremarkable cafe inside, a collection of chairs and tables, with posters covering one wall. There are a few other patrons but it's mostly empty.

They go to the counter to order -- tea and pancakes for Mycroft, coffee and pancakes for Mike -- and then take a table.

“That is my point. If the book is extraordinary, it will be written. And if it is not,” if it is as mediocre as Mycroft suspects Mike's novel will be, given his brief description of it and his lacklustre enthusiasm, “surely it's better not to devote years of your life solely to that one thing.”

The young man nods, considering it as Mycroft considers him. Mycroft likes his confidence, his turn of phrase, his highly photogenic mix of features. Educated to a university level, able to take advice from his elders without being awed by them. DCMS, Mycroft decides, they're always looking for media-friendly faces there.

“I don't disagree in theory,” Mike says. “But getting work isn't that easy. I could go back to uni, finish the degree but I'm not sure an arts degree will actually help me find a job.”

“Perhaps I could help, with a condition or two.”

“How?”

“I know a position that needs to be filled at the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport.” He doesn't know of a specific position, but he knows that Gerald Sanders owes Mycroft several favours and will find a vacancy somewhere. He can employ the boy as a casual; there's currently an underspend in the departmental budget that allows a little wriggle room on FTE. “Nothing glamorous, office work. I think it's casual with a view to becoming permanent.”

“Really?”

Mycroft pulls a pen from his pocket and writes on a spare serviette. Gerald's name and email address, and then his own name. He slides it across the table. “Email your resume to Gerald and mention that Mycroft Holmes recommended you. Ensure that your resume is honest. If I am vouching for you, there will not be a single untruth in that document. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Mike says, responding to the tone of authority by sitting straighter and giving a sharp nod. “And…”

“And?”

Mike looks a little wary, dark eyes watching the serviette lying between them. “The condition?”

“Do not lie on your resume. I believe I made that very clear.”

“Oh.” The surprise and relief on his face makes it clear he'd worried the condition would be something quite sordid. Something he'd readied himself to refuse, despite the offer of employment. Mycroft thinks it a good sign of his character.

“I appreciated the pancakes,” Mycroft says, “but you really are terribly young.”

Mycroft looks up at the sound of the cafe door opening and sees-- No. It couldn't be Lestrade. How could it be Lestrade hurrying inside wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt? This sort of coincidence is unbelievable.

No matter how hard Mycroft stares, it is undeniably Gregory Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade wearing loose grey sweatpants low around his hips and a blue T-shirt that's been put through the dryer so many times it's shrunk. It clings tightly across the small bulge of fat above each hip and the curve of belly; it also clings to the broad chest and strong shoulders, the lean muscles on his biceps. Not from a gym, Mycroft notes, but a clear sign that Lestrade spends less time behind a desk than he's supposed to, and more time chasing after Sherlock and forcibly arresting criminals.

Mycroft looks away before he can be caught staring. He keeps his gaze on his cup as Lestrade stands at the counter. 

“Hey, Kristy, I'm out. Any chance you've got a spare litre?”

“I'll check,” the cafe girl promises and heads to the back room. She comes back quickly with a carton of milk, and Lestrade passes her a few coins.

“Thanks,” he says, tucking the milk under one arm. He turns to leave, glancing around the rest of the cafe, and stops, staring at Mycroft. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Mycroft replies calmly as Lestrade steps over to their table.

“Yeah, but--” Lestrade stops when he notices Mike sitting opposite Mycroft. A quick narrow-eyed glance at his age and dress, and then it's covered with a friendly expression. “But I'm interrupting. I'll leave you to your night.”

“No need. I was just about to go,” Mike says quickly and Mycroft's opinion of the young man increases when he stands and adds, “Thank you for the opportunity. I'll email my resume tomorrow.”

Lestrade steps back to allow Mike to leave and then takes his seat. The milk stands to attention at the far side of the table. “This is a strange time for an interview.”

“I don't think he intended it to be an interview,” Mycroft allows. “But I know a department that could use someone photogenic and smart enough to welcome guidance.”

Mycroft places his cup back in its saucer. He's not expecting Lestrade's hand to dart out to catch the back of his fingers and pull Mycroft's arm towards him. His grip is firm and warm as he turns Mycroft's hand to show the ink stamp on his inner wrist.

“Were you out clubbing?” he asks, amazed and doubtful. Lestrade releases his hand and Mycroft pulls it back regretfully. “Did you wear a blazer to a club?”

“I wasn't going to wear a suit.” Tan trousers, plain white shirt, sports coat: it's as casual as Mycroft's wardrobe gets. He certainly wasn't going to buy new clothes for this social experiment. “This was your idea, you know. Meet people beyond my social circle.”

Lestrade's expression is indulgent and amused and almost… fond. Mycroft is very good at noticing when someone is attracted to him; he's less familiar with the signs of being liked. 

“And how did that go?” Lestrade makes it sound like an inside joke, like he's laughing with Mycroft and not at him.

“About as well as you'd expect. Apparently, twenty is the cutoff for clubs these days. Although to be perfectly honest, even if I'd been twenty I doubt I'd enjoy the experience.” Mycroft reaches for his cup of tea and then finds it surprisingly empty. “And you? Your flat is close to here, isn't it?”

“Round the corner,” Lestrade says. “I couldn't sleep and I was out of milk, and this place is closer than the convenience store.”

Mycroft is suddenly aware that Lestrade probably sleeps in those clothes -- has a flash of imagining soft, body-warm cotton and Lestrade's sleepy smile -- and that he has no good reason to keep the man from his bed. “Don't let me keep you. You should go home and enjoy your tea in peace.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “I wasn't talking about clubbing,” he says, ignoring Mycroft's invitation to leave.

“I'm unlikely to strike up a new acquaintance at a coffee shop.” Mycroft knows. He's tried.

“No, I meant…” Lestrade sighs and scratches the back of his neck. Mycroft does not let his gaze waver, does not let himself memorize the play of arm muscles in that simple gesture. Really, it's quite inconsiderate for Lestrade to wander around in public dressed like that. “Me.”

“What?” Mycroft asks, sure he's missed something.

“Do you want to go to dinner sometime?”

“Why?” Mycroft asks and then he realises. A date. Lestrade is asking him out. “I thought you were straight.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow at him. “Just because I married a woman doesn't make me straight.”

“Yet you've only dated women since your divorce.”

“Because I was carrying a torch for a guy,” Lestrade says grudgingly, “and it didn't seem fair to date men I wasn't interested in.”

“Oh.” Given who Lestrade is, that would match his sense of decency. “I won't ask why, but I'm glad you've changed your mind.”

“I didn't change my mind,” Lestrade says. “I just finally got the nerve to ask him out. I'm not sure he's said yes yet.”

Mycroft reaches for his cup, stalling, then remembers its empty. He puts it back down and looks up to find Lestrade grinning at him.

“Yes,” he says clearly and calmly. “I would like that very much.”

***

Mycroft doesn't tell Sherlock. He doesn't need to. Lestrade is many things but he's not a deceitful man.

“You should tell Lestrade about the curse,” Sherlock says, rolling another double onto the backgammon board.

“I'm not going to tell him about something that doesn't exist.”

“Police are superstitious,” Sherlock replies, tapping his piece around the board. “He'd believe you.”

Mycroft picks up the dice. He shouldn't ask. He knows Sherlock's taunts are only childish attempts to annoy him. He should be smart enough to understand Sherlock's reasoning, even if he doesn't spend as much time around Lestrade.

He rolls the dice and moves his pieces. He ignores Sherlock's pointed silence as long as he can. “Based on what evidence?”

“He has a lucky tie for court cases.”

“Hmm.” Admittedly, that does suggest a superstitious nature, a willingness to believe in lucky charms and curses go hand in hand. But it doesn't change the fact that curses do not exist and therefore, Mycroft is not cursed.

“It's only fair to warn him,” Sherlock adds helpfully, then rolls another double. Mycroft would suspect loaded dice if he hadn't checked them himself.

***

Mycroft is secretly charmed that Lestrade suggested _Gauthier_ for their date. He likes their selection of dishes, interesting flavours, not too complicated, not restricted to describing themselves in trendy terms of fusions and nouveau cuisine. The host might give him an uneasy glance as he's shown to a table -- at the back, a little away from other patrons -- but that's only to be expected.

Lestrade arrives right on time. Mycroft watches him follow the host across the restaurant. He's wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, and a soft-looking leather jacket. For a moment, Mycroft is reminded of his schoolboy crush on a local motorcycle-riding hoodlum, something he hasn't thought of in decades. That crush was doomed as soon as he talked to the boy and realised he was a cretin.

Lestrade grins brightly when he spots Mycroft, and Mycroft allows a small smile in return.

“Hey, I'm not late, am I?” Lestrade asks, sitting down.

“No, I was early.”

“Good. You can never tell with London traffic,” Lestrade starts, and then they're talking about traffic woes and unpredictable ETAs, about roadworks and ridiculous drivers. Lestrade's describing a dangerous right turn, moving the salt shaker to demonstrate, when a waiter looms beside them, and Mycroft realises they've been talking for fifteen minutes.

“Oh, how about a glass of wine, white,” Lestrade says, opening the menu in front of him, “and we'll figure out what we want to order. Mycroft? Do you want a drink?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Water will be fine.”

“Not a fan of wine?” Lestrade asks when the waiter leaves.

“Not especially. I do enjoy a good whisky, but I enjoy it more without food.”

Lestrade pulls a face. “Beer, yes. A good Guinness. I can't do whisky.”

“No?”

“I blame granddad's Drambuie. I stole the bottle. I was fifteen and a couple of mates and I finished the bottle. Wanted to die the next day.”

“I am familiar with the feeling. Rather recently,” Mycroft says, and Lestrade gives a snort of amusement. “Was the infamous Dave part of these shenanigans?”

“It was Dave's idea. Not that Mum ever believed me. I was grounded for a month,” Lestrade says, dark eyes glittering with mischief. Mycroft has the sudden urge to ask about every misdeed, every naughty exploit, to learn what Lestrade was like at eight, thirteen, nineteen. To know everything that doesn't get recorded in background files and career histories.

Mycroft looks down at his menu. People do not ask for every possible scrap of information on a first date. That would be obsessive and invasive. “Perhaps we should work out what to order.”

“What would you recommend?” Lestrade asks, and then there's a buzz. He fishes the vibrating phone out of his pocket, frowning at the number as he answers. “Lestrade here.”

Whatever is said, it etches the frown deeper into his face. “But I'm not even on call. What about Peters and Singh?”

There's a pause. Mycroft thinks that they didn't even manage a drink before the date was finished. It's still one of his better dates.

“The flu? Both of them? And Jacobs sprained his ankle. Fine, I'm coming in, but this is overtime. I had plans,” Lestrade says pointedly, and then, “Yeah, I know. I'm coming in.”

Lestrade hands up and puts the phone back in his pocket before he looks up ruefully at Mycroft. “I've got to go into work.”

“I heard,” Mycroft says. “Go. I'll deal with the restaurant.”

“I'm working next Saturday,” Lestrade says, standing up. Mycroft expects some unfeasible promise of calling, some well-meaning but vague future promise. “What about drinks on Sunday afternoon?”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, which is hardly encouraging.

“Come on. You agreed to a date, and this doesn't count. We didn't even get to the food.”

“Well, if this doesn't count as a date,” Mycroft allows playfully, “we will have to reschedule. If we say four o’clock on Sunday, I could make it.”

“Four o’clock. I'll text you the place.”

***

Mycroft arrives in Marylebone just before four, and wonders at Lestrade's choice. It's too far from his work or flat to be a local pub, yet he had specifically chosen it.

It is comfortably close to Mycroft's place in Mayfair. Perhaps that was Lestrade's reasoning: somewhere they could walk back to Mycroft's. If that's the ulterior motive, Mycroft rather likes the idea.

It's an old Victorian style pub, warm woods and a long bar, and unremarkable at first glance. A few patrons sitting at the bar, groups sitting at a few tables, but half the tables are empty. Relaxed chatter drowns out the acoustic background music, but it's not too loud to have a conversation.

It's a Sunday afternoon and there aren't a lot of patrons, but there are only three women in the place, and they're all part of larger groups. The pairs sitting around are all men, in their thirties and older, but the body language is wrong. A little too close, a little too attentive, for straight men. Interesting.

“Oh, you found it,” Lestrade says behind him. Mycroft glances over his shoulder to see Lestrade run a hand through his hair (damp from the showers outside, rain pattern across his sweater suggests a hunched run from his car).

“Yes. I wasn't sure if you wanted to sit at the bar or a table.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Either is fine,” Mycroft says. The bar would be more casual and set a friendlier tone; a table would feel more intimate, would allow for a conversation that wouldn't be overheard. He would be more comfortable sitting at a table, but either would be acceptable.

“Table, it is,” Lestrade says, leading Mycroft to the far side of the room with a gentle hand on his back. It’s high on his back, between his shoulder blades. 

Mycroft only feels the lightest of pressures through his suit, and yet it catches him by surprise. There's nothing indecent or suggestive in the gesture; on the contrary, it's familiar and a little protective. Mycroft knows how to ward off an unwelcome roaming hand and how to defend his personal space with a withering glance. He's less sure how one welcomes a casual touch.

If Lestrade notices him tense in surprise, he doesn't mention it. He just leads them to the table -- a few seconds walk, nothing more -- and then removes his hand. “What do you want to drink?”

“Orange juice, please.”

Lestrade nods and fetches drinks from the bar. It gives Mycroft ample time to decide Lestrade is wearing the same dark blue jeans he wore to their last date. This time, with a deep green sweater -- wool and silk blend, judging by the fine sheen, a few small snags showing it's been in Lestrade's wardrobe for at least a year -- and brown leather boots. Practical for the weather, but a flattering outfit nonetheless.

Lestrade slides over a tall glass of orange juice. “Sure you didn't want whisky? They have some quality drinks here.”

Given the age and disposable income of the clientele, Mycroft would believe it. The reason is much simpler than that. “You've already seen me incapacitated once. I would prefer to avoid a repeat performance. After all, dating is all about hiding one's obnoxious traits.”

“You weren't that bad.”

“I believe I fell asleep on your shoulder.” Mycroft adjusts his cuffs, allowing himself a brief respite from his embarrassment. “Hardly an appealing impression.”

“You were adorable,” Lestrade says. Mycroft hasn't been called adorable since he reached double digits. “High as a kite, but adorable. Underneath all that cleverness and the fancy suits, you're a sweetheart.”

The suggestion is preposterous. “I assure you I am not.”

“Very, very deep down,” Lestrade says, grinning as he drinks his ale.

Mycroft glances around the room, wishing he didn't have the kind of memory that would always remember Lestrade's tone when he called Mycroft sweet. “Why did you choose this place?”

“I thought it might be your kind of place. Better than a nightclub full of twenty-year-olds.”

“A little less obvious, with much older clientele?”

“A little more discreet. Somewhere you can have a drink and relax,” Lestrade explains. “And I figured if you were out clubbing, you probably didn't know this place existed.”

“Admittedly, I didn't do a great deal of research on the subject.”

“In all of your copious spare time,” Lestrade teases. “Are you saying you had more important things to do than read reviews on every gay bar in London?”

“Slightly more important,” Mycroft says superciliously. He should have knocked on wood because his phone rings a moment later. It's his assistant, calling from his office under Cabinet. A national issue, then. 

He doesn't answer it. It stops ringing and at the count of ten, starts ringing again. “I'll need to take this,” he tells Lestrade, and then answers, “Hello.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Anthea says calmly. “We've noticed a discrepancy on the flight arrangements for Zhang Lei.”

“In what way?” he asks calmly.

“His flight arrives this evening at six thirty, sir. Our schedule had him arriving at six tomorrow morning.”

In many ways, Zhang Lei is Mycroft’s counterpart in the People's Republic of China. He is a minor government official with very little power on paper, but he has the influence and leverage to organise a large government of strong personalities. Mycroft will need to meet him at the airport as a sign of respect. “Have a car collect me four forty.”

“From your current location, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very good, sir,” she says and disconnects.

Lestrade is watching him with a surprising amount of good humour. “Your turn to get called in?”

“Unfortunately. Unavoidable, I'm afraid.”

“At least we've got another twenty minutes. We'll make the most of it, and we'll keep trying until we get through a date uninterrupted.”

***

They make plans for next weekend, but Lestrade calls on Thursday to reschedule. His voice is rough and the heavy breathing suggests blocked sinuses. Given the spike in sick leave taken in a lot of Whitehall offices this week, it's an easy conclusion. “You've come down with the flu,” Mycroft says.

“It's doing the rounds,” Lestrade agrees. “Everyone seems to be stuck in bed for three or four days, so this weekend's a write-off.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Had some fancy reservation?”

“I'm sorry to hear you'll be miserably sick for days,” Mycroft corrects drily.

“Eh,” Lestrade says, the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “I've got food, plenty of honey, lemon and garlic. I'll go to bed, watch Netflix and nap. I'll be fine.”

“You are far more sanguine about illness than I am. I tend to either hate everyone and everything, or pity myself greatly. Or both.” Lestrade snorts, and Mycroft finds himself adding, “There is nothing more irritating than being unable to think clearly due to the inefficiencies of your own immune system.”

“I'm guessing you don't get sick very often.”

“Luckily, it is rare.”

“Whereas us in the Met know that catching this year's flu is the price of dealing with the public all day. And if you skip the flu shot, you're asking for trouble.”

Mycroft is not fond of needles, but he understands the importance of herd immunity. And he has always believed in avoiding as many risks as possible.

“Anyway,” Lestrade says, “I thought we could reschedule. I'm working next weekend, but I'm free the weekend after that. You?”

Mycroft's tempted to say Saturday night to avoid a particularly boring event. However, attendance is required and forcing Lestrade to talk to multiple members of the House of Lords would be unkind. Earlier, then. “Would Saturday afternoon work for you?”

“Sounds good. Third time's the charm, right?”

“Charms are ineffective and curses are not real,” Mycroft bites back, a little too quickly. It's residual annoyance from visiting Baker Street and Sherlock's vast amusement at their clashing schedules.

“I never--” Lestrade starts and then stops, showing he has very good instincts. “Why mention curses?”

Mycroft sighs. As ridiculous as it is, it would far more absurd to lie about it. “Sherlock has a working theory that I am cursed.”

“What, bad luck in general?”

“Romantically.”

Lestrade hums. “That does make a certain amount of sense. Given the dates I've witnessed.”

“Curses do not exist,” Mycroft says firmly. “No matter what my brother may claim.”

***

Their next date is at a hole-in-the-wall cafe that has decided “industrial chic” is synonymous with “partially renovated”. There are wires hanging from the exposed brick and a few metal beams of scaffolding artfully leaning against a wall.

Mycroft eyes the mess warily. “Are you sure it's safe to eat here?”

“Are you questioning the decor or the curse?”

“Curses don't exist,” Mycroft says, distracted by the rich berry cheesecake in the display window. It looks tempting but devouring an enormous slice of dessert would reek of gluttony. Those deadly sins really should be hidden on a date.

“We could split it,” Lestrade says, nodding at the slice. 

It looks so good Mycroft almost agrees. “I couldn't possibly.”

“Course you could. It'll stop me eating the whole thing on my own.” Lestrade grins and steps closer. “You'd be doing me a favour.”

It's quite ridiculous how aware Mycroft is of the man. They're not even touching and Mycroft finds himself distracted by how little space is between them. If his shoulder moved slightly to the left or Lestrade’s hand moved a few inches to the right… A few tiny shifts, and Mycroft's breathless at the thought of it. It's exhilarating and utterly ludicrous.

Lestrade takes his silence as agreement and orders the cheesecake. They take a number and try to find a table. 

It's a fruitless search until Lestrade spies a tiny table up the back, annoyingly festooned by hanging wires. “Better than nothing,” Lestrade says.

They shuffle past the other patrons, and Lestrade gives a gentlemanly bow, holding the wires aside for Mycroft and then jerking his hand back suddenly. 

“What the hell,” he says, shaking his hand. “One of those is live.”

“Surely not,” Mycroft says, but the way Lestrade clenches and releases his fingers, trying to work the sting out of his hand, supports mild electrocution. “That's public endangerment.”

“At the least,” Lestrade mutters. “Imagine what would have happened if I'd had a pacemaker or a bad heart? I'm talking to the manager.”

And that is how they spend the rest of their date. Lestrade insists on talking to the manager and getting an electrician to fix the problem immediately; the manager calls the owner and the landlord, and by the time they agree to an electrician coming out, it's unfortunately late in the afternoon.

Lestrade clearly intends to stay until the job is fixed -- and has threatened to close the business to the public if it's not done immediately, although he has no jurisdiction to do so -- but Mycroft has other plans for tonight. Plans he can't avoid without repercussions.

Mycroft pulls Lestrade aside. “I need to leave. I have other obligations tonight.”

Lestrade frowns but he doesn't try to talk Mycroft into any kind of truancy. “Try again next weekend?”

***

“What is that?” Mycroft asks sharply when he spots the round ball of synthetic white fur sitting beside Lestrade's plate.

Lestrade waves at the table and gives a boyish smile. “Rabbit's foot. For good luck.”

Mycroft eyes it doubtfully as he sits down opposite Lestrade. “It's clearly fake.”

“Well, I'm not going to carry around dismembered animal parts. That's not lucky, that's creepy.”

They order, based on the logic that the quicker they order the less likely they are to be interrupted. Under the promise of a glass of wine, Mycroft answers Lestrade's questions on his supposed curse.

“It was a chain letter. I am not going to be threatened into passing on useless missives by the spectre of supernatural repercussions.”

Lestrade shrugs. “Will you think less of me if I admit I send them on sometimes?”

“Why? And to whom?”

“To friends I know will get a laugh out of it.” Lestrade leans across the table, lowering his voice as if he's sharing a secret. “Or to people who send them to me. In retaliation.”

“Fighting fire with fire?”

“I prefer to think of it as a battle of chain mail.”

Mycroft does his best to stifle his surprised laughter at that terrible joke. He almost succeeds.

Lestrade grins at him. “You like bad puns.”

“I doubt there's such a thing as a good pun,” Mycroft replies as their meals arrive.

***

The food is good, the wine is good, and the company is excellent. Mycroft is entertaining hopes of offering Lestrade a ride home -- or perhaps walking him to his door and finally managing to kiss him goodnight -- when they have unexpected company.

Mycroft returns from the gents, with his hands thoroughly washed, and finds Lestrade isn't alone at their table. There's a young dark-haired woman standing beside him, smiling at him and nodding. She's wearing a shimmering gold halterneck with a deep V neckline, and yet she has both palms pushed against the table, pressing her arms together and leaning forward to make the most of her moderate cleavage. It's shameless and obvious, and yet it works. Lestrade has to keep dragging his gaze back up to her face.

She sits down next to Lestrade on the narrow bench seat, and if Lestrade hadn't scooted away from her, she would have ended up in his lap.

Mycroft considers saying nothing and leaving. Beneath the dark eyeliner and red lipstick, she's very pretty with large eyes and a small mouth that make her seem doll-like. The makeup is heavy enough that he can't quite guess her age -- between twenty-five and thirty-five -- but her attention is entirely focused on Lestrade.

Mycroft can understand why. Even after a draining case, even with tired lines beneath his eyes and dragging at his cheeks, Lestrade is still one of the most handsome men Mycroft's ever met. To be honest, he's surprised Lestrade isn't accosted everywhere he goes.

It's good manners that force Mycroft to return to their table. It would be rude to leave without saying goodbye, even if Lestrade does seem fascinated by his new companion.

As Mycroft gets closer to their table, he decides Lestrade seems more intrigued than fascinated. He's wearing a friendly smile, but he also seems confused. And relieved when Mycroft returns to his chair.

“This is Mycroft,” Lestrade says. “Mycroft, this is Alina.”

“Charmed,” Mycroft says coldly.

“Ah, you are Gregory's friend?” she asks, but no, she doesn't say _Gregory_. She says _Grigori_ , she's more familiar with the Russian version of the name.

Mycroft takes another look at her. The dark blow-dried hair falling over her shoulders. The long painted nails that catch slightly on the table, as if she's used to much shorter nails, used to practicality over appearances. Her clothes are new but not expensive, and her patent leather handbag is a common brand in Eastern Europe. When Mycroft looks closer there something in her eyes, something brittle and scared and desperately trying not to show it. 

Beautiful foreign women come to London all the time, but dressed glamorously and flirting as if they're terrified usually points to prostitution or an arranged marriage.

Given how nervous she seems, it's most likely the second option.

“His friend and interpreter,” Mycroft says in Russian. She beams, but Mycroft pays more attention to Lestrade's proud smirk. “Did the agency tell you much about Gregory?”

“Only the--” she says in English and then frowns. In Russian, she continues, “The essentials for an introduction. Name and photo and basic information.”

She hasn't introduced herself to a random stranger. This was an arranged meeting, at least as far as Alina knew. Both his assistant and Sherlock knew of their plans tonight, but Sherlock is the only one who would find this amusing.

But he's also not prone to useless pranks. If he arranged this meeting under false pretences, it was for a reason.

“On your current case,” Mycroft asks Gregory in English, “did Sherlock mention a witness he was trying to find?”

Lestrade rubs a hand over his cheek, thinking. “Yeah. Said they must have seen the killer but there were too many options in London. Whatever that means.”

“I suspect that means Alina is your witness,” Mycroft says.

Alina understands enough of that to shake her head. “No. No, I did not see anything. I do not tell anyone.”

“You're safe now,” Mycroft says in Russian. “He's a police detective and he will keep you safe. If you tell him what you saw.”

“If police come, they will send me home.” Alina looks from Mycroft to Lestrade. “I will owe money.”

They promise to pay the women when they're married, but in the meantime, there's a growing tally of costs to be repaid. To come over and not get married would be a financial burden she might never overcome.

“If you promise to tell him everything you saw, every detail, I will arrange a working visa and repay the agency.” The speculative expression that crosses her face makes Mycroft quickly add, “On the provision that you do not marry me. Or Gregory.”

“You are not his interpreter,” she says in Russian, too knowingly for Mycroft's taste. In English, she says, “Yes, I will talk to you. For visa. But first, bathroom.”

As she goes, Lestrade asks, “Visa?”

“I'll arrange it next week.” Mycroft catches the eye on a waiter and nods for the bill. “I assume that's when I'll see you next?”

“Yeah. I'm going to have to take her in and interview her properly,” Lestrade says. Then he pulls a face. “It's nine o'clock on a Friday night. It's going to be hours before I can get an interpreter down to the Yard.”

“Does it need to be a Met employee?” Mycroft asks carefully.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Needs to be fluent. Needs to be independent of the arresting team.”

“I could do it,” Mycroft offers, “since my social plans just got cancelled.”

“How did Sherlock find one particular mail-order bride in all of London?”

“If you ask him, I'm sure he'll tell you in great detail.”

***

It's not quite the night that Mycroft had envisioned. As a romantic setting, the interview rooms at New Scotland Yard are lacking. But he does get to spend the evening with Lestrade. Admittedly, most of that evening is spent with a Russian mail-order bride playing third wheel, but he also gets to see Lestrade do his job: competent, compassionate and confident. A rather appealing combination, Mycroft has to admit.

Unfortunately, the night ends with Lestrade, Watson and Sherlock running off to arrest armed thugs, while Mycroft keeps Alina company for three hours, waiting for the Met’s interpreter to arrive. 

Lestrade returns -- sporting the beginning of an impressive black eye but otherwise fine -- with four men in handcuffs, but he barely has time for a quick hello on his way through.

Twenty minutes later he emerges from the interview room and gives Mycroft an apologetic smile. Well, more of a wince. Clearly, the swelling around his eye has started to hurt. “You might as well go home. This is going to take a few hours.”

Mycroft nods, standing up. The interpreter has finally arrived, so there's no reason for Mycroft to continue sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs. “Until next weekend?”

“Next weekend,” Lestrade agrees. “I promise, no arrests.”

***

Next weekend there are no arrests. There is a fire in the kitchen that sets off the alarm and causes the entire restaurant to be evacuated, but there are no arrests.

“This is ridiculous,” Lestrade mutters as they stand on the pavement. A crowd has gathered to see what will happen next. 

“Please resist the urge to run in and help.”

Lestrade turns to Mycroft. He's still sporting the yellow and green remains of that black eye. “They got everyone out,” he says instead of the more logical answer that running into a fire would be unacceptably dangerous.

Mycroft hears familiar sirens approaching. “We should be able to leave this to the professionals. Did you drive here, or would you like a ride home?” He starts walking away from the restaurant and the press of people. Soon, it will be too crowded for his driver to get through.

“It's early yet,” Lestrade says, letting his shoulder brush against Mycroft's for a moment. “We haven't eaten.”

The sirens get louder and Mycroft can smell the smoke in the air. He tries not to let his footsteps hurry. Tries not to think of ash floating to the ground. Tries to keep his breathing calm and steady.

Something must show because Lestrade stops him with a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

Mycroft could lie but there's nothing to be gained by it. “I don't like fires.”

“That's all it is?”

Mycroft likes the way that Lestrade keeps his hand on his arm. It gives him something to focus on, to keep him anchored to the present. “Our home burnt down when I was a child. Nothing more than a silly childhood fear.”

“Being scared of fire seems reasonable to me,” Lestrade says.

Mycroft nods back towards the restaurant, the flashing lights and fire engines. “But needless when there are professionals dealing with the situation.” 

“Come on.” Lestrade slides his hand down Mycroft's arm, hooking his arm under Mycroft's elbow. He tugs at their linked arms and leads them away from the noisy crowd.

It's old-fashioned and unmistakably romantic to wander along the streets arm in arm. Mycroft is not usually the recipient of obvious gestures of affection. “And where are going?” 

“Let's find somewhere to eat.”

***

It's Lestrade who suggests teppanyaki. He calls it “dinner and a show”. Mycroft is still unsettled by the fire; from experience, he knows he'll be edgy for the rest of the night. Too easily lost in his own memories, too distracted to make conversation.

It would be a hindrance over an intimate dinner but luckily they're sitting around the teppanyaki grill, watching the chef slice and flip and fry food. Lestrade grins at the showmanship and laughs when food flies through the air to land on the wooden boards they use as plates.

When the chef claims he could feed them like birds, land the food right on their tongues, Mycroft demurs. The rest if the tables are thrilled by the idea, and there's a ridiculous amount of cheeping and bird noises as they all lean forward, mouths open.

True to his word, the chef flings bits of fried eggs into mouth after mouth, and Mycroft's lands on his plate. There's a cry of “Again! Again!” from the enthusiastic blonde at the end of the table, and then her friends chime in as well.

“Again?” the chef asks, building up the table's response. “Is everyone sure?”

There's a cry of yes and clapping, and then the chef asks everyone to open their mouths. This time, it's tiny pieces of steak, chopped with a dangerously large cleaver and tossed through the air. The blonde and her friends first, then the couple in their thirties, and then it's Lestrade's turn. But as the chef flings the meat up and over, his knife slips out of his hand, slicing through the air in a concave arc.

Mycroft grabs at Lestrade's collar and yanks him back as the knife lands in front of him. It's embedded into the wooden plate, with Lestrade's tie pinned beneath it.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade says with feeling, staring down at his tie and the sizeable slash in it.

Their whole table has gone deathly silent.

Mycroft releases his grip on Lestrade's collar. He takes a breath and then stands up. “I think I might have an early night,” he says distractedly, staring at sharp knife edge glinting under the lights.

“That's my lucky tie,” Lestrade says as Mycroft reaches for his coat and pulls it on. 

Mycroft buttons it up carefully and tries not to think about the likelihood of such an accident. The chances of one restaurant catching fire and another injuring a customer on the same night, of picking those two restaurants out of all of London...

There are coincidences and unlikely possibilities, and then there is tonight. Tonight defies probabilities.

There's a hand on his wrist. Mycroft looks up to see Lestrade sans tie -- his lucky tie, Mycroft remembers, his personal charm against ill fortune. “That was--” Lestrade stops. Doesn't seem to know how to finish that sentence.

“I find myself rather tired,” Mycroft says, the politeness coming from habit. “I'm going to go home now.”

“It was just a tie,” Lestrade says. “It was a hell of a scare but it was only a tie.”

This time, Mycroft thinks. It was only a tie this time. He ignores the commotion at their former table. He doesn't care about it in the least. “I think that's enough excitement for one night.”

Lestrade insists on staying with him until his driver arrives. He stands beside Mycroft in the unseasonable chill, fingers burrowed into his coat. In the gleam of streetlights and shop windows, Lestrade's eyes are dark temptations, and the bruise around his eye is starkly obvious.

If it had been a different night, Mycroft would reach over and kiss him goodnight. He would close his eyes and let himself feel it, his lips pressed to Lestrade's, the body warmth and scent of another person so close.

But the car pulls up and Mycroft climbs into it, and the opportunity is gone.

***

If he didn't need Sherlock's input, Mycroft would avoid Baker Street for a while. But he requires help, so he goes.

Sherlock takes one look at him -- noting the choice of pinstriped armour, the steel grey of his tie, the use of slightly too much product to force his hair to sit obediently -- and frowns. “I won't play Cluedo,” he says, and Mycroft must look more tightly wound that he realised.

“I don't have time for games today.”

“And yet you're here,” Sherlock says, frowning. “If it's a case, it needs to be interesting. We're very busy right now.”

“It's not a case. I simply need some assistance.” Sherlock waves a hand, and Mycroft continues. “Tell me everything you know about DI Lestrade's lucky tie.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don't think you can duplicate luck.”

“That depends on how much attention you paid.”

The slight jab works. Sherlock can't resist showing off, reciting every detail about the tie -- colour, threads, length, pattern. Things that Mycroft should have noticed, but he'd paid more attention to Lestrade's smile, and later to the knife pinning the tie to the table.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says when Sherlock's finished his little speech. It's enough information to find a replacement, a replacement so good Lestrade will hardly notice a difference. “I'll see myself out.”

“Should I worry about oil prices skyrocketing?” Oil prices rising due to another war in the Middle East, the nation's armies gathering for another invasion. 

Mycroft must look much worse than he realised. “No need to worry.” 

He lifts his umbrella and starts to turn when Sherlock announces, “You're breaking it off with Lestrade.”

“He doesn't know yet,” Mycroft tells him. And then, because Sherlock doesn't always understand emotional repercussions when his feelings aren't involved, Mycroft adds, “Don't tell him.”

“You seemed to like him.” Sherlock knows, better than most, that Mycroft likes very few people.

And so few people like him in return. It really is a pity. “I would appreciate it if you could be helpful to the DI over the next few weeks. Make his job easier, not harder.”

“Planning to leave him brokenhearted, dear brother?”

Mycroft frowns at him. “Don't be so dramatic.”

***

Mycroft gives himself two days before he visits Lestrade. Half of that time is needed to purchase the replacement tie; the other half is only forestalling the inevitable.

He visits the Yard in the early afternoon, a time when the office is usually at it's emptiest, late lunches and casework leading to empty desks. Lestrade is eating a prepackaged sandwich, reading paperwork at his desk.

Mycroft raps on his open door and waits for Lestrade to glance up before stepping in and closing it behind him.

“Hey,” Lestrade says, smiling. The smile makes Mycroft regret the reason for his visit, but he thought through the options and this was the best choice. Discussing this at either of their homes would be too personal and Mycroft doesn't trust what might happen if it were discussed over dinner somewhere. Mycroft doesn't want the memory of this conversation connected to his office or his club, so Lestrade's office is the natural choice. “Is this work related?”

“Not in the least.” Mycroft pulls the small box from his pocket and hands it over. “I wanted to replace last weekend's casualty.”

Lestrade seems confused as he opens the box, pulling out the tie and running his fingers over where the fabric was sliced. He's looking for a seam, Mycroft realises. Thinks it's the original mended.

“It's a new tie,” Lestrade says after a long inspection. “I would have sworn it was the same one.”

“I can't vouch for its luck, but it's otherwise identical.”

The tie itself is unremarkable. It's black with small grey diamonds, respectable but not an especially fashionable choice. Lestrade slips it under his collar and does it up by feel. “What do you think?”

“Indistinguishable from the old one.” Mycroft plants his feet firmly, lets himself lean on his umbrella. He would rather look anywhere but at Lestrade, yet he forces himself to make eye contact. “I also wanted to thank you. I know every date ended unfortunately, but I have enjoyed our time together.”

Lestrade starts to smile and then his brow crinkles. “Enjoyed? Past tense?”

“Past tense,” Mycroft agrees. It's a conversation Mycroft has had enough times to be proficient at ending an acquaintance. This part should be less awkward with someone you genuinely like, but if anything, it's worse. “This clearly won't work.”

“Because of the curse?”

“I don't believe in curses. But I do believe in data and patterns. At this point, it's an established fact that our dates have never once ended as one would hope, with something as simple as a goodnight kiss.”

Lestrade looks out at the desks beyond the glass walls of his office. A kinder man would feel guilty at having this conversation here, where Lestrade is trapped into ensuring this conversation looks civil and friendly. Mycroft is only relieved that there's a limit to how messy this conversation can get.

“It has not improved. If anything, it has escalated to the threat of personal harm. That seems an unreasonable risk to take.”

Lestrade's mouth is pinched tightly, a mixture of distress and anger that Mycroft looks away from. “Thought this all through, huh?” Lestrade asks, voice rough and challenging.

“I think it would be best for all concerned.” He almost admits that this decision was made with a significant amount of personal regret, but he doubts Lestrade cares to hear that.

“And there's not much I can say about it here, is there?”

“I wanted to make my opinion clear. It seems unfair to delay telling you any longer.”

“But telling me here seems fair?”

“It seemed expedient.” In his peripheral vision, Mycroft watches a sergeant walk towards Lestrade's office and pause, noticing the visitor. She looks down at the page in her hand -- clearly, something that needs Lestrade's attention -- and stands there, dithering whether to interrupt. Mycroft lifts his umbrella from the carpet, readies himself to leave. For some foolish reason, he adds, “You have my number and my address. If you wanted to discuss it further.”

He's saved from saying anything else by a tenuous rap on the door as the sergeant leans her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but--”

“It's fine,” Lestrade says, waving her in. “We're finished here, right?”

That last question is directed at Mycroft. Such a succinct and accurate summary of this conversation. 

Mycroft summons the most polite smile he can and nods. “Yes, DI Lestrade, we are.”

***

Mycroft keeps himself as busy as he can. Even so, sleep doesn't come easily. He finds himself awake at 2am, googling for ways to break a curse. It's quite ridiculous. He knows he's not going to wake an hour before dawn to cleanse his aura with a freshly cut lemon. He's not going to wave a selenite wand around him to realign his chakras. The idea of a nice long soak in a salt bath or applying rose oil to his skin sounds appealing but ineffective.

Mostly he sits in his study, staring at the fire. He was right. If events had continued to escalate, Lestrade might find himself in a lethal amount of danger. Mycroft might miss Lestrade's company, but risking the man's life is too steep a price to pay.

Yet…

Yet he finds himself making foolish online purchases -- salt and rose oil; crystal wands are far too ridiculous -- and knowing he'll make a fool out of himself. Knowing it won't work and Sherlock will laugh at him if he finds out, but wanting to do something. Even if it's hopeless.

***

He avoids Sherlock for a few days. Well, he avoids Baker Street in case he sees Lestrade and causes an awkward situation for all. Sherlock understands the reasoning too easily.

‘He looks tired, too,’ Sherlock texts on Friday morning. Mycroft wants proof of how tired Lestrade is, a photograph so he can make the judgement himself. But that is not something he has the right to demand. 

An hour later, Sherlock sends: ‘This case is only a 3. Do note, I am being helpful.’

Mycroft lives in a world of favours and secrets. It's second nature to add this to the mental tally he keeps, the list of favours owed in return.

‘Noted. MH’

***

“I thought you were working on a case with Sherlock.” 

It's not the most gracious start to a conversation, but Mycroft wasn't expecting to open his front door and find Lestrade standing there. His shirt is mildly rumpled from being worn all day, collar loosened for comfort; there's a smear of mud on the sides of his shoes from running after a suspect a few hours ago.

When Mycroft's attention slides back to his face, he can see that Lestrade hasn't slept well for the last two days. There are tired lines to either side of his mouth and puffy shadows beneath his dark eyes. Even in this state, Mycroft finds him terribly handsome. The distraction is inconvenient, to say the least.

Lestrade smirks at Mycroft's appalling manners. “Hi to you too.”

“Sorry, come in,” Mycroft says, stepping back into the entryway. He gestures inside and Lestrade steps in, the first time he's been beyond Mycroft's front door. “The sitting room? Or would the dining room be better?”

“Here's fine,” Lestrade says, glancing around the small hallway covered in dark wallpaper, the heavy front door and the bronze umbrella stand beside it.

An informal conversation, Mycroft surmises. Short enough that he doesn't see the need to sit. No need to offer a cup of tea, then. “I take it you had something specific to say.”

Lestrade pushes a hand through his hair. It's ineffective when his hair's so short, but it's clearly a habitual gesture. “You said if I wanted to talk about it…”

“I didn't expect you would,” Mycroft says, with too much honesty. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Lestrade rocks back on his heels. “I've been thinking. About the curse and how to break it.”

“Cleansing auras and aligning chakras?” Mycroft asks sarcastically and Lestrade shrugs.

“I've been thinking about fairy tales. That's where curses belong. What always breaks a spell in a fairy tale?”

“A good number of them end in solitude and misery,” Mycroft points out. “Or death.”

“Or a kiss.” Lestrade steps closer, giving a hopeful smile. “We've been dating for weeks--”

“We've spent weeks trying to finish a date,” Mycroft corrects.

“And we haven't kissed,” Lestrade continues, “so why not try it?”

Mycroft raises a questioning eyebrow. “I believe the literature insists on true love's kiss.” He has enjoyed spending time with Lestrade but he'd hardly claim a deep emotional connection. A succession of failed romantic encounters does not constitute a lasting attachment.

“Sleeping Beauty hadn't even met her prince, so kissing first and falling in love afterwards must work too.” Lestrade shrugs and steps a little closer. Mycroft lets him. “Maybe it's not true love's kiss. Maybe it's the potential of love.”

“Possibly,” Mycroft stalls, uncomfortable. He doesn't want Lestrade doing this from some misguided attempt to save Mycroft. Especially from something that can't logically exist.

Lestrade steps closer. Only a few finger widths between their chests now and Mycroft feels very aware of his own shallow breaths. Of the small movement of Lestrade's chest as he breathes. Close and fraught with possibilities.

“Or maybe the curse doesn't exist. Maybe we've just had a string of really bad luck,” Lestrade says, brushing two fingers along the line of Mycroft's jaw, “but I still want to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Mycroft huffs out, nodding and tilting his head down as Lestrade leans closer. Their lips touch with heart-stopping gentleness, slow enough that Mycroft can catalogue temperature and pressure, the scent of Lestrade's skin. The warm weight of his hand on Mycroft's neck. It's sweet and tender, and Mycroft finds himself leaning in to follow as Lestrade -- no, he can't think of him as Lestrade after a kiss like that; it has to be Gregory now, surely -- as Gregory pulls back.

He doesn't step away. He keeps his hand on Mycroft's neck as he watches Mycroft's face, gauging for a reaction.

“Are you sure that's sufficient?” Mycroft asks quietly. The gambit feels bold although he's sure it will work. “Enough to break the curse?”

The smile that blooms on Gregory’s face is warm and wicked. “Wouldn't want to do things halfway.”

“Precisely.”

The next kiss is still careful but less cautious. Gregory leans in and this time, his lips linger on Mycroft's, soft and parted. An invitation Mycroft is helpless to refuse.

An invitation Mycroft doesn't want to refuse. Welcomes wholeheartedly, in fact.

Hands in short hair. Wet, lush kisses. Breathing through his nose and clutching Gregory close, and feeling the solid weight of his chest press against him.

Mycroft hasn't kissed like this in far too long. Can't remember the last time. Not when Gregory's tracing shivery patterns down his sides, wide palms sweeping in to drag up along his spine, only to wander again.

Mycroft takes a few shuffling steps backwards, dragging Gregory with him. They stumble back against the wall, a thud as they hit plaster, but Gregory doesn't stop kissing. They pull apart for air, snatching a few gasped breaths, and then kissing again. Gregory's mouth on his, and Gregory's roaming hands, and no wonder Mycroft's knees go a little weak.

He slides down the wall a little, cool plaster on his back and the heat of Gregory against his front, and Gregory makes an approving groan.

It puts them at an even height. Gives Gregory maybe an inch on him and there's something delightfully novel about leaning up to kiss Gregory. Tilting his head and adjusting around chin and nose, hooking his hands up around Gregory's shoulders.

Mycroft's distracted by the unusual angle. He barely registers Gregory shuffling closer, nudging his knees between Mycroft's legs. Doesn't notice it until there's a hand on his thigh, coaxing and pulling, tugging up until his leg is curled around Gregory. It's a ridiculous position, wanton and dramatic. Mycroft feels like he's playing some sultry tango dancer.

And then Gregory ducks down and gets a hand on Mycroft's other thigh and lifts him. Picks him up and pins him against the wall as if he weighs nothing. There's something so primal about it. Such a masculine display of strength. The muscles bunching up in Gregory's shoulders, the tight curves of biceps as he steadies Mycroft's weight and keeps kissing him.

Mycroft would be embarrassed about how much it turns him on, how needy his gasps are getting, how desperately hard he is, trapped tight against Gregory, but he can feel Gregory's cock. He can feel how hard Gregory is, how much he wants this too.

He can feel every breath they each take. Can feel the buttons of his waistcoat trapped between them. 

There are too many clothes between them. Mycroft needs to be naked, needs to feel Gregory's skin against his. Now. “Take me to bed.”

Gregory nods against Mycroft's neck and takes an unsteady step away from the wall.

“Put me down first,” Mycroft orders peevishly. “Don't wrench your back before we even get to the bedroom.”

“Ten years back, I would have carried you there to prove a point.” For a moment, Gregory proves his point by holding Mycroft up, taking his sweet time to loosen his grip. He releases one leg at a time but Mycroft keeps his arms around Gregory's shoulders to stay steady.

“But now you're wiser?”

“I'm not stubborn enough to risk A&E when I could get you naked instead,” Gregory says with a tender kiss just above the collar of Mycroft's shirt. There's a light brush of fingertips across the nape of his neck and Mycroft fights down a shiver.

“Bed,” he says. “Now.”

“Show me the way.”

Mycroft has to step back. Feels the cold air around him replace the body warmth. “Follow me.”

Gregory walks close behind him. Close enough for the steady weight of his hand to rest low on Mycroft's back. No teasing stroke of fingers or wandering, groping grip. Just a light, steady pressure that draws Mycroft's focus. He catalogues how different that touch would feel through the silk backing of his waistcoat or just a shirt. How much more he could feel on bare skin. It's a constant reminder that Gregory is here, that there's another living body walking down the dimly lit corridors with him.

It feels old-fashioned. A quaintly protective gesture, as if Mycroft was a damsel in distress rather than a dragon, dangerous and untrustworthy. It makes him think of Sherlock's medieval myth stage, playing at knights and dragons. He remembers Sherlock at seven, wielding a stick as if it were Excalibur, parrying and lunging to defeat the dreaded dragon and claim Mycroft's hoard of sweets. 

Gregory notices Mycroft's smile and gives him a curious look. “Do I get to know the joke?”

“I was thinking how little we change from childhood,” Mycroft explains. “How well we know ourselves. As children, we personify animals and identify our own traits in them.”

“Sharp of tooth and smooth of tongue,” Gregory says softly, and Mycroft stops to stare at him. That description is Sherlock's, his word-perfect definition of a dragon at age seven.

He can't imagine Sherlock telling Gregory about that. Even if it came up, he doubts it's something Sherlock recalls clearly. It had taken Mycroft years to teach Sherlock enough tricks and techniques to match Mycroft's memory; Sherlock didn't know any of them at that age. 

But it's too much of a coincidence that Gregory should spout that exact phrase without being told. “Where did you hear that?”

“You told me,” Gregory replies but Mycroft has never said that phrase to him. He knows he hasn't. Gregory reaches over to brush fingers along Mycroft's temple, saying, “The night you stayed at mine. You told me the important attributes of a dragon.”

How mortifying. Mycroft wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Did I say anything else terribly embarrassing?”

Gregory grins brightly. “The best way to hide sweets from Sherlock. And how you'd leave clues for him to find your hoard.”

Mycroft presses his fingers against his closed eyes, hiding his face for a moment. “Was that all?”

“You spent a lot of time defining the colours of my tie and trying to explain something about light refracting and infrared,” Gregory says and Mycroft knows the exact piece of stealth technology he must have tried to explain. The report on that military technology is highly classified, so Mycroft's thankful that his description was vague.

“I can't apologize enough for that night.”

“It's fine. You really were adorable,” Gregory says, honest and surprisingly fond. “And you called me exquisite. That was a first.”

That seems ridiculous. Gregory should have been told that many times by many lovers. “You are. Although with a little more sobriety I might have said handsome and inspiring instead.”

Gregory blinks at him, clearly caught off-guard. He swallows and gives a small shake of his head.

“You are,” Mycroft says before he can argue the point. Somehow, he finds the courage to catch Gregory's hand in his. He gives it a tug and starts walking again. “My bedroom's this way.”

***

The evening is successful, although not without mishaps. Enthusiastic hands pulling at each other’s clothes have to freeze when Mycroft's watch chain catches in the stainless steel band of Gregory's watch. It takes annoyingly long minutes to coordinate their efforts, unclasping Gregory's watch and setting both items aside.

Agreeing to undress separately is a sensible solution. At least until Mycroft glances over to see Gregory in nothing but a white shirt and dark briefs. It's a mouthwatering sight. 

He needs to get on his knees, to get his hands on Gregory's strong thighs. To smell Gregory and feel the warm bulge of dark cotton against his cheek. He startles at the tiny clatter from the other side of the room. 

Looking up, Gregory's shirt is hanging open, framing a tanned expanse of solid chest. Gregory's face is flushed, his hands still gripping his shirt tight. There's a button missing.

“Was that yours?” Mycroft asks although the answer is obvious. “Should we find it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gregory replies, tugging the shirt off entirely. Getting undressed as quickly as he can.

Finally in bed, Mycroft gets strong hands on his skin and that wicked tongue doing sinful things to his ear. And a truly disappointing realisation. “Bugger.”

“What?”

“There are no prophylactics in the house.” From Gregory's groan, he hadn't prepared for this eventuality either. “You didn't bring anything?”

“Didn't want to jinx it. Condoms seemed a bit… assuming.”

“It's been so long since it's been a possibility,” Mycroft says weakly. As if explaining would help the situation. He considers the dismal prospect of getting dressed again and going to buy some. He doubts the likelihood of continuing after yet another interruption.

Gregory sighs. “I've been safe but I haven't been tested since I got divorced.” 

For a moment, Mycroft appreciates Gregory's practicality, that he would consider health concerns after a cheating spouse. But it doesn't solve their current problem. Given Mycroft's current lack of sex life and Gregory's romantic history, it's a relatively low risk but Mycroft doesn't take needless chances.

He's trying to work out how to phrase his stance when Gregory says, “You have lube, right?”

“Right bedside table, second drawer.”

“Then we'll figure out a compromise, and save the rest for next time.”

The compromise ends with Mycroft sprawled against Gregory, his back to Gregory's chest. One firm hand on his hip, the other working his cock with confident strokes. The warm slide of Gregory's slick cock between his thighs as Gregory sucked bruises along his shoulder. Sweaty skin and huffed breaths to a satisfying, albeit messy, finish.

Afterwards, Gregory asks, “D’you think it worked?”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft stretches his legs out, yawning and reaching his arms up to the ceiling. When he looks over at Gregory, Gregory chuckles and runs a hand through Mycroft's hair to smooth it down. “Perhaps.”

"Perhaps?"

Too many stumbles to rule out the curse entirely. “What do you think?” Mycroft asks, rubbing his cheek against Gregory's bicep as he squirms closer.

Gregory lifts an arm, welcoming Mycroft. “I think we set another date and test it.”

***

A new restaurant and a day later, and Mycroft finds himself apprehensive. After fifteen minutes tick by and there's no sign of Gregory, he's willing to upgrade that to worried.

Given that Gregory is a seasoned officer who knows how to handle himself, Mycroft knows he shouldn't worry. The most likely explanation is that he's been called into NSY on a case. It's unlikely that Gregory would stand him up by choice.

Still, Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief when Gregory hurries through the door ten minutes later. It's Saturday but he's wearing a suit and no tie, suggesting he had been called in.

“Sorry I'm late,” Gregory says, sitting down.

“Body at the Thames,” Mycroft surmises based on the small flickers of mud on Gregory's shoes and the faint red line on his wrist from wearing thin rubber gloves. “We could have rescheduled.”

“I delegated. Sally will be fine,” Gregory says firmly. “I'm not missing this.”

His insistence is flattering. Mycroft hides his smile behind his menu. “Perhaps we should order.”

***

Halfway through their meal, Mycroft's phone vibrates. The screen shows a rather distinctive number -- honestly, if the CIA weren't so useful on occasion Mycroft would ignore the call entirely -- so Mycroft answers.

It's a short call, most of the details implied rather than identified outright, but it's not the sort of situation Mycroft can afford to neglect. He eyes his half-eaten salmon mournfully and sighs.

“Called in?” Gregory asks with a grimace of sympathy.

“I'm afraid so.” Mycroft takes a last sip of his wine and texts his driver. “It will be a late night.”

Mycroft doesn't say the other thing he's thinking. That this is clear proof that the curse still applies. Instead, he stands up, ready to leave.

Gregory reaches out, catches his wrist. “Come to mine when you’re done, right?”

“Are you certain? It’s bound to be after midnight.”

“I think we need to try breaking the curse again,” Gregory says, serious but for the glint of mischief in his eye. “Keep trying until we get it right.”

***

It’s two weeks later before he finds the time to visit Baker Street. This time, they’re playing Old Maid with John’s playing cards. The crux of the game is controlling facial reactions when dealing with someone who knows you very well. Mycroft finds it a useful skill to exercise.

He picks the third card from the left in Sherlock’s hand, collecting the ace of hearts. Sherlock’s thumb tightens, suggesting the Old Maid was lying close to it.

“So,” Sherlock says, as Mycroft pairs the red aces together, “speaking of hearts…”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and holds his cards out for Sherlock to pick. “We were not talking of hearts.”

“How is Lestrade?”

“Very well, last I saw him.” Which was yesterday. Chinese takeout at Gregory’s flat, sprawled on Gregory’s couch and talking over spring rolls. Laughing and pretending to squabble over the last banana fritter. Kissing in Gregory’s tiny kitchen and slowly making their way to the bedroom.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, probably seeing the same thing Mycroft noticed in his mirror: the lack of tension in Mycroft’s shoulders, the slight weight loss from increased cardio, the persistent nag of his adductor muscles from thighs stretched around Gregory's hips.

“Did you find a way to break the curse?”

Mycroft’s not entirely sure. The date before that was meeting for drinks at a pub, where a motorcyclist lost control and crashed outside. Gregory had stepped forward, taking control of the scene and organising the stunned onlookers. The one before that was interrupted by cranberry juice splashed across Gregory’s shirt; Mycroft insisted on Gregory going home to change and Gregory insisted on Mycroft joining him, and he can’t begrudge any date that ends naked in Gregory’s arms.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft replies, taking pity on Sherlock and fishing the Old Maid from his hand. “Curses don’t exist.”


End file.
